


A Winter Dawn

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cabin Fic, Comeplay, Coming In Pants, Cuddling, Hand Jobs, Hurt!Sam, Kisses, Kissing, Kissing Lessons, M/M, Sibling Incest, Underage - Freeform, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, Winter, daddy kink ???, hot shower, playing in snow, shame/humility, smell kink???, snowball fights, sweet smelling sammy :), up north, winchesters in a shower together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2705981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam (14) and Dean (18) enjoy winter at a cottage up north while John's on a hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Great Snowball War of 1997

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted winter teenchesters being cute sue me
> 
> Also, this is kind of like a revamp of my last year's winter story; same premise, different happenings.

Sam's in front of the TV watching Chevy Chase make a fool of himself in _National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation_ when Dad breaks the news.

Another town, another state. Another associate needing assistance.

No problem for Dean; he doesn't even ask where they're going this time, just packs his duffle and when Sam frowns at him he tells him _it's inevitable, Sammy._

Sam was on holiday break from school, thankfully, but something tells him Dad wouldn't hesitate to pack them up regardless. He did what he wanted because he was _Dad._ Sam scoffs. More like drill sergeant. Never bothered asking his sons if they even signed up for this war; hunting down every supernatural creature that didn't belong here and getting rid of them, preparing for the ultimate showdown with the big boss — whatever _S.O.B._ killed Mom.

Sam would rather watch Chevy Chase try to string up Christmas lights.

 

"There's snow in Indiana this time of year," Dean tells Sam as they pack the car at the crack of dawn. He knows Sam's a sucker for it, knows how much he loves a white Christmas and often recalls in surprising depth "that one year you stayed out for hours riding on that sled of yours until you couldn't feel your face."

If there was any excitement in Sam at all he resolved to keep it inside; at least for now. He wasn't about to give Dad the satisfaction of having an agreeable fourteen-year-old son. The way Sam saw it, someone had to be the normal one in the family. It sure as hell wasn't Dad, and Dean was the perfect soldier, so it wasn't gonna be him either. He never knew Mom, but he likes to think of her sometimes, wonder what she'd be like. And he couldn't imagine her, no matter how hard he tried, agreeing with the lifestyle Dad set up for them; new town every month, two-lane asphalt and with both eyes trained on revenge at all times. Dean's eighteen and already he knows how to melt silver into bullets and bury a body.

 

The drive takes nearly eleven hours, but Sam sleeps through most of it. Usually does, just because it cuts the time in half. He's not sure when it happened, but it's white outside the window when his eyes crack open again, and the glass is all fogged up. He swipes a finger back and forth like a tiny windshield and watches the huge white flakes dance and flurry around, and it's such an automatic reaction to smile that he forgets for a second he was supposed to be upset. He nudges Dean's shoulder over the seat and and he startles, head lifting off the back of the seat and tossing around.

"Huh?"

"Dean, look!" He almost whispers, his voice cracking. His excitement is reserved only for Dean, who did nothing wrong. Sam hopes Dad notices how quiet he's trying to be, how he's deliberately controlling and directing his emotions.

"Huh!" Dean marvels, wiping the fog from his window as well and peering through. "See, Sammy, told ya."

Sam slumps back in the seat contently, watching out the window at the passing flakes. Dean's face looks back at him and smiles crookedly, reassuring and warm. Sam flashes him a small grateful smile in return, the one that says he's thankful Dean's there. The one stupid constant in his life is his big brother, charming and whole-heartedly irritating ninety-nine percent of the time, but he's always there.

 

The place they end up occupying for the next few weeks while Dad takes care of the hunt belongs to Dad's hunter associate Paul Harris and his wife, who's also a hunter. A husband and wife monster-killing duo. Sam would have never thought such a thing existed. They're both as rough around the edges as the come, and their winter cottage accurately reflects that; dead stone fireplace and cracked logs for walls, nice place but could do with some decorations and maybe cleaner furniture. Not to mention it's practically an ice box. The car had been a lot warmer.

Dad thanks the Harris' for letting his boys stay there while they're on the hunt, and they're happy to show them around the two levels of the place briefly and tell Sam and Dean to make themselves at home.

 

The adults pack a pickup truck with weapons and thick, fraying sacks of supplies. Sam watches from one of the huge windows as the truck slips from view down the narrow road lined by snow-coated trees.

"How long you think he'll be gone for this time?" Sam mumbles, chin resting on his fist in the sleeve of his sweater. There was a time when Christmas meant asking if they could do things as a family, like go out to eat or go see a film that was playing, but now it means having to listen to yet another excuse as to why Dad'll miss it. Sam gave up getting worked up about it a long time ago. He and Dean usually end up doing something small together like drink eggnog and play games and that's enough for Sam anyway.

"Dunno. But shouldn't be too long. He's got two other hunters with him." Sam hears Dean plop on one of the couches behind him; the squeak of springs and then an exasperated sigh.

Sam decides to dig in his duffle to retrieve his textbooks. His teachers showed no mercy on the students and each of them assigned several pages of homework to work on over the break. Sam figures now's as good a time as any to start.

Dean got bored with making fun of Sam for doing homework pretty quickly, instead getting up and inspecting various areas of the cabin in closer detail. When he comes back, he pokes at the charred logs in the fireplace with a poker and tsks.

"Wonder if we could get this sucker to work," he contemplates.

Sam looks up from question fourteen and shrugs.

"I'm gonna go look for firewood."

 

Dean's occupied for a good hour after that, half of it spent retrieving wood and the other half warming his hands and feet by the newly-lit fireplace.

Sam transferred his body and his nest of books to the rug on the floor in front of the fire. The warmth from it seems like the only heat-source in the whole cabin.

 

"Sam," and fifteen minutes later Dean's bored again, no surprise, and Sam's finding it harder and harder to concentrate. He shoots a warning glance over his shoulder at Dean.

"You can't honestly sit there and tell me you'd rather be doing homework right now than declaring snowball war?"

Sam lets his pen tip in his hand and it's like Dean knew _exactly_ which string to pull because before Sam knows it he's grinning hard and jumping off the carpet and he and Dean race to get dressed for outdoors; boots, gloves, jackets, hats.

 

They practically stumble out the door and plop down across from each other in the snow. It isn't even cold, no wind and only a few stray flakes, the perfect weather for the snow to be fluffy and sticky.

"Okay, so you can't cross this line here," Dean marks up the snow with his foot, drawing a long line in between the two of them. "This is my side, that's your side."

Sam was already starting to gather stock excitedly, mitts gathering up handfuls of snow and forming them into balls.

"Alright but we need a middle ground, in case we wanna call truce," Sam says, getting up with effort in the snow and drawing a second line with his boot, leaving a gap between the two lines.

"Alright, okay," Dean's saying, backing up and sinking down on his knees in the snow.

Sam continues making snowballs, energy quickly rising as he pumps out one after another. He knows Dean has an advantage in throwing because he's older, bigger, stronger, but if there's one thing Sam has over Dean it's agility, speed.

Sam looks up and Dean isn't making snowballs, he's gathering up the snow and packing it in front of him, making it taller, like a wall, a blockade.

"What're you doing?"

Deans too busy to answer, quickly packing the snow around him.

"You're making a barricade. Smart." Sam decides to do the same, gathering up snow as quick as he can with broad arms and packing it in.

Once his wall is sufficient, he continues making balls. He hears Dean call out "ready?"

"Yeah," Sam calls back, out of breath from the anxiousness bubbling in his chest.

The snowballs start coming one after another, some hitting Sam's wall, others passing just beside it. He's crouched behind it, waiting for the first round to subside and then he makes his move, popping up and throwing them across to Dean's side as hard as he can. Dean's wall is bigger, wider, and it only makes Sam throw harder in frustration. But then the top of Dean's head can be seen, grey tuque surfacing and darting around, dodging Sam's throws. He throws more back, and Sam has to whip his head away from one that almost gets him in the neck.

They're fired back and forth so quickly it almost looks like it's snowing huge white snowballs, Sam barely has time to catch his breath before one's hitting him right in the eye, it feels like an ice cold hard slap. He recoils, hands flying up to make sure he still has an eyeball as he ducks down behind his fortification. The snowballs keep coming, Sam hears them hitting the ground by his legs.

"You got my eye!"

"I'm almost out of goods, Sammy, you're lagging." The snowballs keep hitting the back of his blockade.

"You got my eye you jerk!" It starts to water, stinging like hell. He's afraid to even open it out of fear he's gone blind.

"Looks like I win then!" Dean snorts.

Sam finally blinks his eye open, testing it for sight. It's blurry but functional.

"Sam, c'mon, quit being a pussy."

Sam frowns, arms folded and sinks up against his barricade. His face feels like it's throbbing, half of it raw cold and the other half numb. The snow's soaking through his pants now and it's making his legs all damp and clammy.

"Sammy? C'mon I won't hit you again I promise."

"You didn't win, you played unfair."

"Okay, I didn't win."

Sam huffs, watching his breath leave his mouth in a puffy white cloud.

"C'mon man. Hey, Sam, truce?"

Sam purses his lips, contemplating.

"Truce? Sam, I'm in the truce zone." Dean repeats, and Sam peaks over the ledge of his wall and sees Dean standing, his palms raised in a gesture of honesty and surrender.

Sam sighs and brushes himself off, standing and meeting Dean at the middle ground.

"I'm sorry I got your face," Dean offers but he's still smiling so Sam's not sure he really means it, not until he says "shit" and seems to inspect something on Sam's cheek.

"I really did get'cha, didn't I?" Dean brings Sam in and presses a thumb against his cheekbone, just under his eye. It burns and Sam winces a little. "Must'a been a piece of ice, there's a tiny cut."

"What?!"

"S'nothing, just a little bump."

Sam shoves him exasperatedly, the concern on Dean's face loosening.

"Sorry. Hey, m'sorry." He brings Sam in to a hug, which, no matter how grumpy Sam is, always manages to bring him right back up to neutral and maybe even a little higher. His mitts loosely grip Dean's coat at the back, his face resting right up in the crook of his shoulder. They sway a little, Dean pats his butt and turns his older-brother-smug-meter back up to maximum power.

"Still a little bitch, though. Just couldn't take losing, huh?"

But this time Sam giggles despite his displeasure, shoving Dean away but Dean hangs on and they both topple over. They tussle on the cold ground, snow flying up and around them before Sam manages to get in an upright position and from there he's got the upper hand, has Dean pinned though Dean isn't putting up much of a struggle.

"Alright, I'm down, you can get your revenge," Dean says dramatically, throwing his hands over his head.

Grinning and out of breath from the brawl, Sam grabs a fistful of snow and claps it on Dean's face, not hard but enough for Dean to groan and to screw his eyes up.

"Ugh, gross, a dog could have pissed on that," Dean mumbles through the small opening at the corner of his mouth.

"What dog, you dope."

Dean tosses his head side to side, trying to get away from Sam's gloved hands still trying to feed him the snow.

Sam can't stop grinning stupidly. "Open up."

Dean shakes off when it's all pretty much smeared across his cheeks and melting down the sides.

"Damn, that's cold." His huge green eyes peer wildly up at Sam, glistening flecks of water on the ends of his blonde lashes, skin glowing rosy-red and alive.

Sam flops over him in one heavy _whump_ that knocks the breath out of Dean, lets his limbs rest where they fall and shuts his eyes. The snow smells crisp, wet-clean winter smell, but Dean smells like warm skin, heady-sweet and a pale kind of musk that Sam knows well. He feels Dean shift his arms down so that they're settling on top of Sam.

"S'not even cold," Sam mumbles into the collar of Dean's coat.

"Easy for you to say, you're not the one buried in the snow."

Sam's lips part on a smile but neither of them move. Sam could fall asleep like this if he wanted.

 

When they finally go back inside, neither of them can feel their toes. They warm off in front of the fire and then Sam goes back to his school work while Dean cooks up some beans and toast for supper.

By nine-thirty they're both falling asleep in front of the television set that's about halfway through _It's a Wonderful Life_.

"Hey," Dean's only realized now that Sam's slumped against his shoulder, heavy and drifting slowly. Time for bed. For both of them. "C'mon. Let's go."

Sam mumbles something unintelligible but only shifts when Dean gets up, and follows him upstairs.

"They said this room was for us," Dean says, standing in the doorway and looking in to what's obviously the guest room. Wood floor. Wood walls. Christ, wood bed posts. Just one double bed right in the middle, taking up most of the space, and a chair in the corner with extra blankets draped over the back.

Sam lazily treads inside, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks questionably at Dean, eyes all sleepy but blinking open in the warm light of the room. "S'not bad."

Dean cocks a brow and glances down the hallway. There are two other doors. He knows one's the bathroom; the Harris' had shown it to them on their little tour of the place. The other one must be their bedroom. He goes to it even as he hears Sam say "Dean?"

It's so much bigger, huge king-sized bed and even though there's just as much wood this one's more decorated, matching lamps on twin bedside tables, thicker blankets and two closets that look like they're stock full of stuff that could be useful if someone or something breaks in. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, pats the warm flannel blanket and smoothes it under his palm.

"Dean, what're you doing?" Sam's voice is still groggy, he's standing in the doorway shifting his weight, loose grey sweats covering the tops of cold feet.

"Don't wanna sleep in there," Dean says simply, then slips both his socks off and crawls in to the king bed, fluffing the pillow up around his neck. He sighs deeply.

Sam gapes incredulously. "That's _theirs_ , Dean!"

"I _know_. They're gone, how're they gonna know? 'Sides I'll make it all up again before they get back. Hey, Sam, do me a favor and shut the light switch off."

Sam just stares until he's no longer in shock, until jealousy starts to creep in and the cold wood panels under his feet start to numb his toes. He shuts the light off and tiptoes around the side of the bed, standing in front of it. There's red from a light outside that's seeping in through the curtains so Sam can see it when Dean lifts an eye open and it finds Sam.

"Can I sleep here too?" Sam asks, rubbing up his goose-fleshed arms and cupping his elbows.

Dean sighs. "Fine." He scoots over, bringing the pillow with him and setting out the other one for Sam.

Sam crawls in, cold limbs scrambling for blanket as they slip under the sheets, crowd in to Dean's warmth and settle. Sam shivers all over at the contrast in temperature, his body actively seeking out more warmth and he presses in to Dean until he feels his skin and the soft, warm cotton of his t-shirt. He lets his heavy breaths ease slower as Dean's familiar scent floods him like home. He feels Dean shift too, leans in and lets Sam share the warm space of his body because it's better together.

Sam sighs. He's starting to enjoy it more and more when Dad goes away.

"Dean?" He says quietly, just a silent little peep.

It takes a while but Dean grunts in response and Sam can feel the vibration in his chest where his head's resting.

"Thanks."

"Fr'what?"

"For... Being there." He doesn't only mean now, or even just lately, he means always. Dean's _always_ there and Sam doesn't know how to tell him how grateful he is; even though Dean's an enormous pain in the ass he's his brother, his caretaker, his best friend. Sam lifts his chin up and Dean's got his eyes closed but his brow is furrowed deeply like he's confused or didn't hear correctly. Sam instinctively leans in and plants a lone chaste kiss right on the corner of Dean's mouth, pulling back immediately after and settling back down in the nook of his shoulder. He's too tired to think about it so he doesn't.

"Wha're you kissin' me for?" Dean drawls, voice sleep-raspy and deep.

Sam just shrugs.

Dean cups Sam's elbow, the one that's laying heavily over his ribs, and tugs on it. "Whad're you kissin' me for?"

Sam looks up finally but doesn't let the anxiety that he knows is buried underneath all the sleepy happiness swim up. He shrugs again. "Felt like it."

Dean just stares, trying to figure something out but it's like he's too tired too, he's got that look that he often gets right before he says _fuck it_ so Sam isn't afraid of a sudden disruption in their little burrow of blankets and body warmth, he just settles back down and tries to shut his eyes. He feels Dean relax a little, exhale a warm puff of air and the hand that's on his elbow even decidedly strokes it with a caressing thumb.

It makes Sam fall asleep in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also open to suggestions and ideas for future chapters, not entirely sure where this is going so!


	2. Blame it on the Eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes them some "eggnog with a kick" and Sam gets his first official lesson in kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do they always lead to angst ugh I'm sorry

Sam's grateful for the most part that last night's little kiss-in-the-dark is written off as sleep-induced and petty— it's forgotten about the very next morning. In a brief moment of mortification in the early morning hours, Sam had thought Dean might act standoffish or weird, but he's none of those things the next day. Everything's just... normal.

There's not much to do in the cabin other than eat or watch TV or do more homework in Sam's case, so they spend their time doing those things or getting on each other's nerves as usual, but with Dad gone it's like there's this unspoken code where they're allowed to be whatever they want to each other and there're no consequences.

 

Second night in the wood shack. That's what Dean calls it. The power goes out, and while it doesn't really make much of a difference since the fireplace is the cabin's heat source and all the food is stocked in cans, they still go out to the store to get food but really probably just to pass some time and temporarily cure their boredom.

 

Dean still gets excited when he gets to drive the Impala, swearing that Dad is planning on giving the car to him soon. Sam doesn't believe him but he knows how happy it makes Dean to dream so he leaves it alone and usually rolls his eyes when it's brought up.

They stock up on a few more cans of things (because you can never have too many) and the candy aisle calls to them with red and green and little jingling things hanging off plastic packaging. Dean picks out a floppy red Santa hat and plops it on Sam's head and snickers when it droops over the side. Sam makes a face; lopsided unamused grin, but adjusts it on his head as they keep shopping.

Dean ends up buying the hat for Sam, shrugging and tossing it on the counter when Sam says they can't afford to spend their food money on useless gimmicks.

 

Sam wears the hat while he watches Dean make chicken noodle soup and while they eat it in front of the fuzzy old TV set watching holiday specials; Charlie Brown and Dr. Seuss and Rudolph.

When they're finished eating Sam starts to slump against Dean again, crowding his space with a distracted nonchalance. He keeps absently scratching light fingers over his chest, from the corner of Dean's eye it looks like he's playing with his nipple and it's the most casual thing for Sam but Dean wants to tell him to cut it out.

"As if a dog would be able to pull all that crap up the mountain," Dean says instead, watching the cartoon, little droopy-eyed scraggly thing heaving a sleigh of gifts up a peak.

A laugh bubbles out of Sam, shoulder squirming further down, pressing hard into Dean's ribs. "It's just a cartoon, Dean."

Dean smirks and takes another swig of beer from the half-empty bottle in his hand.

_Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small, was singing, without any presents at all._

"Hey, you want some of this?" Dean tilts the bottle neck towards Sam.

Sam beams up at him. "I'm not allowed to drink."

"It's just a sip."

Sam straightens and takes the bottle, lifting it to his lips and slowly, cautiously, tastes the liquid. Almost immediately after he recoils, making a sour face and shaking his head and Dean laughs and takes it back.

"That's disgusting. It tastes like a burp."

"Hah! You get used to it." Dean stands, going into the kitchen.

"I'm not sure I _want_ to."

Dean opens up various cupboard doors, peaking into each one until he finds what he's looking for. He pulls the bottle out and it clinks against the others. He grins at the label. "Aha! Sammy, I'm gonna make you somethin' you'll love."

"What?" Sam says skeptically from the couch.

Dean sets the Captain Morgan down on the counter and gets out the eggnog and two glasses. If Sam doesn't like this he's crazy.

"Here," when Dean comes back into the living room, Sam's sitting on the rug in front of the fire, trying to warm his hands. Dean hands him the glass, thick pale-yellow eggnog topped with a sprinkling of nutmeg.

"Eggnog?" Sam takes it and smells it.

Dean nods. "With a kick."

"What's the kick?" Sam's brows show hesitation but he takes a sip and then his eyes go all huge. "I taste the kick."

Dean snickers and joins him on the rug, sighing as he settles down and feels the fire's warmth like a hot wind across his face and neck. "You like it?"

Sam nods, enthused, taking a few more sips. He licks his red lips wet and sets the glass down on the table next to them. "Whad'you think Dad would do if he knew I was drinking?"

Dean snorts on a sip. "Prolly kill me."

"Nah," Sam leans back on his wrists. "I wouldn't let him."

Dean smirks. Sam's floppy hair goes in his eye and he blows it away— or tries to, then gets this smug matter-of-fact look on his face. Dean sets his glass down next to Sam's. " _You_ wouldn't let Dad do something?"

"That's right."

Dean prods Sam's small ribs, grabs his bony wrists when Sam squirms and squeals. "Know what Dad would say?"

" _Dean!_ "

" _No_ , he'd say _son, it's too late for mercy._ " Dean puts on a false authoritative voice, following Sam onto the ground as his knobby wrists and knees lash out, uncontrollable laughter spilling from his throat.

"He'd say _Dean is going down, six feet under._ "

" _No!_ " Sam's out of breath from laughing and struggling so much, knocking his knees against Dean's ribs, twisting around on the rough carpet, his hair producing static and clinging to the rug. "Dean!"

"I'm not _Dean,_ I'm Dad." Dean slams Sam's wrists above his head and firmly settles in between Sam's spread thighs, a heavy weight bearing down on him. "Fight me."

Sam's defiance falters, wild doe-eyes peering excitedly up at Dean before he starts to struggle again, only now he has more difficultly because Dean's in a favorable position, practically locking Sam in place like that with his legs wrapped around Dean's body and his arms above his head. He uses his legs to try and kick out, his neck craning up. No matter how hard he struggles to break free, Dean always has the upper hand. Dean can feel his small body under him writhing around, lifting his chest and hips and then letting them fall, letting Dean push them back down; like this inevitable force or magnetic tug between Dean and the ground and Sam's caught in between, dimples and flared nose and heady, laborious gasps.

"You—can't—kill him," Sam plays along, squeezing his thigh tighter against Dean's side.

"Yeah? Why not?" Dean pushes, voice still gruff around the edges, the way he knows their father's is.

"Cause."

"Cause why?"

Sam stops struggling, licks his lips and searches for his next words. "Cause I need him."

Dean looks taken aback, the tough-guy persona breaks, his eyes softening on Sam.

Sam could use that time to break free, if he really wanted. He could use his knee, get them turned around, get the upper hand. But he doesn't. Instead, he leans up with his neck and kisses his brother. Again.

This time there's no excuse, no possible way it could be written off as _anything_ other than what it is, but Sam's so caught in the moment and the closeness that it just seems natural.

He barely moves his lips once they're pressed against Dean's, just holds them there and Dean's equally as frozen, doesn't even seem to register what's going on until Sam pulls back and sees his wide green eyes peering at him. And that's when the anxiety kicks in.

He holds his breath even after Dean rolls off of him, lies flat on his back on the rug next to Sam. For a long loaded minute neither of them say a word while the butterflies in Sam's stomach threaten to fly up his throat. He can feel the shake in his chest. He risks a glance over at Dean who's already looking back at him, unreadable look in in his eye.

Then, miraculously, Dean cracks a smirk, familiar cocky expression returning and then he nudges Sam playfully with his arm.

"Yer' such a dork."

Sam lets out a relieved breath and the air lifts a little.

They lie there for a while, listening to nothing but the crackle-pop of the fire and the unsteadiness of both of their breathing and it's kind of... relaxing. Especially since Sam's head feels like it's buzzing and not just from the eggnog.

"Do you know how to kiss, Sammy?" Dean asks, most casual question in the world.

Sam feels his face tingle with heat. Before tonight, and last night, if that counted, Sam had never kissed anyone, hadn't even thought about it if he was being completely honest. He just saw kissing as a way of being close to someone and the only person he was ever close with was Dean.

"Um... I... I guess?" He doesn't imagine it being that hard, you just move your lips around, right?

"You know, I can teach you to do better n'that," Dean says, just a voice from Sam's left as Sam stares up at the ceiling, swallowing over the lump in his throat.

"You—you wanna _teach me_?" When Sam looks over Dean looks away.

"I don't _want_ to, I'm just saying I _could,_ if you want me to. 'Cause Sammy, you ain't knockin' any girl's socks off with little kitten pecks like that. Jus' sayin'."

Sam smirks even though he feels a little humiliated, but he only uses it as fuel to suppress his nerves as he says "okay."

"Okay, sit up," Dean settles himself in front of Sam, sitting cross-legged.

Sam straightens excitedly, folding his legs in front of Dean and lengthening his back.

"Closer," Dean scoops Sam's legs up from under and tugs him forward so that it's all Dean in between his knees and they're face-to-face. From here he can clearly smell the liquor on Dean's lips, can feel the present heat from Dean's palms on the backs of his thighs even through the layer of his cotton sleep pants. Sam feels his face get hot, he knows it's got to be beat red right about now. He grins wide even as Dean starts to talk.

"Okay, so most girls'll feel shy when you're kissing them for the first time. That's why you wanna look like you know what you're doing."

"Kay."

"So you gotta let her feel comfortable," Sam doesn't know if it's on purpose but he feels Dean's fingers gently stroking the tops of his knees and it makes the lump in his throat even thicker but he has to swallow over it because he doesn't want a whole heap of saliva in his mouth when he kisses Dean.

Shit _. When he kisses Dean._

"And then you got two options. You can go in and kiss her, or you can let her kiss you. So," Dean gestures for Sam to take action, to come in and kiss him and Sam freezes up; he could feel the flutter of his heart like it's a caged insect trying to escape. It takes everything in him to muster up the courage to move his face an inch closer but he loses it and giggles like a kid because now everything's so _intentional_ and he can't help it. He blames the eggnog.

"What?" Dean's trying not to laugh along with him, after all, good instructors never laugh at their very serious work.

"I can't," but Sam's closer now because he leaned forward when he laughed and when he lifts his chin it registers just how close their lips are to each other and Sam stops smiling.

"Fine." Dean catches his lips, and it's so different from the other times because Sam actually _feels_ them, every aspect of them because Dean is kissing _him,_ their lips are in just the right position, delicately interlaced but just enough pressure to make the butterflies fly all the way down to Sam's groin.

They start out with a slow drag of lips, Sam's not sure what to do and now that they're actually kissing properly he realizes how much of an amateur he is because what Dean's doing feels incredible and he's just kind of... there; he's not sure if he should activate the muscles in his lips or leave them lax. He has time to toss the idea around in his head before he feels Dean's tongue glide gently across his bottom lip and he shudders and reaches for Dean's knee to squeeze, closing his eyes and feeling a deep clench in the pit of his stomach.

Sam follows Dean's lead, slowly starting a rhythm between their mouths, it seems like the best way to do it is by gently massaging the other's lip with your own where you're weaved together; pulling back and then repeating the process; like a bunch of tiny "kitten pecks" as Dean calls them except they all blend into one and it's then that Sam realizes that he's making out with his brother.

 _Good, Sammy... S'good,_ Dean whispers intimately to his lips. _Open your mouth a little more._

Sam responds, parting his lips for Dean and Dean lets his tongue slip between Sam's lips, past his teeth to twine with Sam's tongue. Sam lets out an involuntary little mewl, pathetic-sounding and weak, catching it in his throat.

Dean's a fucking _expert_ at this.

Their lips smear together, wet now and easier to glide over one another's, Sam keeps opening his mouth for Dean to lick into again because it feels amazing. Tastes amazing. Everything's amazing.

His hand shoots down between his legs where they're spread, and sure enough, he's got a boner. He panics and breaks the kiss, tearing his lips away from Dean's, leaning forward trying to hide it with his hand, his body. He presses his forehead to Dean's shoulder and freezes up in horror.

"What's wrong? What is it?"

And Dean knows something's wrong, knows because Sam's breathing the same way he breathes just before he's about to cry; fast and panicky and he's hiding his face, knowing it's an embarrassing flaming red.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks again.

Sam's cheeks are on fire, his eyes starting to get wet. He's so fucking stupid and _pathetic._ If Dean sees how stupid he is, if he sees what's happened, he's going to make fun of him and Sam will never stop hearing about his patheticness for the rest of his life.

Sam presses on his dick through his pants with his palm, trying to will it away with mind power; roadkill, monster guts... none of it works because the pressure only makes him more turned on, more needy.

"Sammy."

Sam feels Dean's palm slide down the inside of his thigh hesitantly, fingering over the backs of Sam's knuckles. Sam shudders and Dean's hand almost touches his dick through the spaces between his fingers.

 _It's okay. It's okay._                                 

But it's totally not and Sam knows that. People aren't supposed to get turned on by their siblings. They get turned on by their girlfriends and wives. Not their goddamn older brothers.

_Want me to help you out...?_

Pity. That's what that was. So Dean didn't laugh at him like Sam had anticipated, but instead he's offering his assistance for Sam's benefit, which was so like Dean, always putting Sam before himself. Sam hated it. He didn't want pity. He just wanted to keep kissing Dean like nothing was wrong.

Sam shakes his head violently and tears himself away from Dean, getting up and stumbling out of the room. Dean calls his name but Sam blocks it out. He reaches the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs and slams the door shut behind him, which makes a noise almost as loud as the thrumming of blood in his ears.

He collapses on the bed face-first, willing himself not to cry like a stupid baby, swallowing down the thick heaps of saliva in his mouth and blinking hard to suppress the tears that want to come up. He's so stupid. He messed everything up.

And he's _still_ turned on. As if this whole stupid thing wasn't embarrassment enough, and as if Dean wasn't right downstairs and ready to barge in any second. Sam's hips dig into the mattress, really to offer himself some relief or to push the hard-on away, but it only hurts more and before long he's grinding down against the cold sheets, hips making hard erratic circles in place, fists clutching the bedspread. His sensitive stomach flutters as it grazes against the soft tickly surface; up-down motions that push his t-shirt up as he goes faster and faster. And the more he doesn't think about how much of an idiot he is, the more he thinks about Dean offering to "help him out" or whatever he said. _Dean stretching the elastic band of his pants and putting his hand inside... holding him and stroking him and working the orgasm right out of him in the same expert way he used his tongue to guide Sam, the same way his plush lips manipulated Sam's so well, like he knew exactly what Sam needed... not that Sam... needed..._

He screws his eyes shut as he comes, pushing up and up as he soaks his boxers full of sticky come. After it feels amazing it starts to feel gross and shameful again; Sam's still not used to producing wet slimy stuff after he comes, he's not sure he'll ever be. He sighs into the pillow, all of his muscles sore and tired.

There's a hard couple of knocks on the door and Sam jumps right into panic mode again.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah...?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, Dean... I just... I just wanna sleep right now, okay?"

"...okay."

Sam rests his chin back down on the pillow.

"Sammy, I'm sorry, kay?... If you get cold up here, come back down."

Sam closes his eyes, listens to Dean's footsteps as they shuffle down the steps. And even though his body is cooling down now; goosebumps creeping up his ankles, he manages to fall asleep like that.

 

xxx

 

It's two hours or so after Sam tried to get under the covers to warm up, which apparently wasn't very beneficial. Sam feels the cold in his _bones_ and eventually gives in, sliding out of bed. When he stands he feels the pull at his crotch and remembers the horrifying events of the night. Scornfully and rather blindly, he digs through his duffle on the chair in the corner and retrieves clean boxers and plaid pajama pants, slipping into them as quickly as humanly possible because being naked in this room kind of feels like you're out in the snow.

 

He tries not to make the steps creak as he comes down, holding the railing and deliberately taking each step carefully. He already feels the warmth from the fire, and it only gets warmer the closer he gets.

Dean's asleep on one of the two couches, thin flannel blanket stretching over his body. He looks like a beacon of warmth. He's just like the fire glowing; bright and yellow-orange, breathing softly, resting hand rising and falling gently on his stomach. Sam glances over at the other couch and notices a folded blanket and pillow there; he smiles for the first time since the kissing lesson and goes over to it, slowly settling in and laying the blanket over himself.

He glances over at a sleeping-Dean and knows that he'll finally be able to get a good night's rest.


	3. The Warmth of a Bitter Cold Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries to lift Sam's spirits with a little fun in the snow.  
> They keep each other ... _very_ warm on a bitter cold night :)

Sam doesn't say much during breakfast the next morning, just silently thanks Dean for preparing it and swallows down bite by bite sluggishly slow in his pajama bottoms and bed-head.

Dad calls and says he's gonna be another few days. Christmas is in two. Dean has no choice but to nod and say _yessir_ to everything their Dad barks out through the phone.

 

Dean figures by around noon if Sam's spirits are still down in the gutter he needs to concoct a plan that'll lift 'em up.

 

It's half past twelve and Sam has only said approximately three words all day: _thanks,_ (for the breakfast) _okay_ (to "how are you feeling?"), and _maybe_ (to anything Dean suggests they do).

Dean's only got one idea left up his sleeve so, praying it'll work, he asks Sam if he wants to go play outside in the snow. Dean notices a small smile twitching Sam's lips up as he contemplates. "Okay," he says and leaps to his feet.

 

The snow is even softer today, if that's possible, a fluffy white bed stretching on and on into the trees and beyond. Their boots make soft padding noises against it as they shuffle down the walkway. It's barely even cold, there's no wind, no sounds for miles.

"Figure we could take a walk in the forest, and—"

"Who wants to walk?" Sam laughs for the very first time all day, suddenly bouncing up on his feet and breaking into a run. He darts into the forest, huge red coat weaving through the trees. He sprints spiritedly and Dean only lets him get a moment's head-start before he chases after him. "Oh no you don't!"

It's harder to run because his feet sink in the snow if his steps are too heavy, but it just makes him want to reach Sam even more. He hears Sam laughing and he feels so grateful for it, like he finally found a way for Sam to forget about his sour mood for the time being and it's great.

Sam squeals when he glances once behind himself and notices that Dean's right on his tail, but then he picks up some snow and throws it back at Dean and it hits him right in the side. Breathless and invigorated, Dean reaches down to pick up a clump of his own, only when he looks back up Sam's nowhere to be seen.

Dean drops the snowball and quirks a brow. "Sammy...?" He beckons. He's pretty sure the kid's hiding now.

He stalks the bootprints as he would on a hunt, hunter seeking victim. Only now it's playful, exciting. His heart thumps loudly and quickly. The prints skew to the left behind a huge tree trunk and Dean's expression turns smug. He lightens his steps and the closer he gets, the more he could see of Sam's arm. His mitted hand, first. Then the sleeve of his jacket and finally Dean tackles him and Sam shouts loud enough that it echoes throughout the treetops.

"Got'cha!"

" _Dean!"_ Sammy's laughter is raspy-cold and puffs of white escape his mouth as they tussle and eventually fall to the ground. The _thump_ of their bodies against the packed snow knocks the breath out of both of them, but it doesn't hurt and they roll and roll and push and shove and kick and flail and knock each other around like a pair of cubs but they barely feel anything because of all the layers.

Dean lands on top of Sam and his hat flings off as his head thunks against the ground, exposing flying strands of soft brown locks. He tries to push at Dean with the palms of his mitted hands, feeble little shoves at his chest. Dean smiles and growls, diving in to Sam's warm neck. He's a wolf and Sammy's his prey.

Sam squeaks and giggles and shoves at him more, making high-pitched puppy-like noises and Dean actually _bites_ him, right at the soft sensitive skin at his neck, and Sam gasps and jerks around.

"Ah!" His knees kick up but he can't stop giggling.

"Gonna devour you," Dean gnarls, nosing playfully behind Sam's ear.

" _No_!" Sam plays along, squirming around in Dean's hold, hands all squished up between their bodies. He smells like pink sugar and fruity soap, edible and ripe for the picking.

They roll around some more, bodies tossing around in the snow a while before Dean lets Sam push him down, heavy mitts pressing into his shoulders, open mouth breathing labored and jagged over him.

"Okay, you got me, you got me," Dean feigns surrender.

Sam beams down at him, flustered pink cheeks, fluffy clumps of snow in his hair and melting in his lashes. Dean wants to ... _kiss_ him. Fuck. He wants to kiss his baby brother. Again. This time with no pretense of an amusing lesson. He just wants to taste those baby soft lips again, wants to lick them warm and nuzzle himself in all that pink, deliciously dewy skin for forever and ever.

But then Sam's smile fades.

And Dean remembers what happened the last time he kissed Sam and realizes it was a mistake in the first place.

Sam pushes off Dean and walks back in the direction of the cabin, leaving Dean huffing in the cold snow.

"Sam?" Dean calls after him but receives no response.

Dean follows Sam's footprints back to the cabin and finds him inside on one of the couches by the fire with his knees to his chest.

Dean sighs. It's all his stupid fault. If he never would have offered to give Sam stupid kissing lessons none of this would be happening. His brother would still wanna freaking _look_ at him, for starters.

"Sammy, I'm sorry..." Dean offers. "I... I shouldn't have done what I did last night."

Sam's head perks up a little but he says nothing.

"Let's just... put it behind us, okay? How's Mac and Cheese for supper? Cool?"

Sam finally jerks his head back and offers up a small agreeable smile. "Cool, Dean."

 

xxx

 

It's a cold night. The coldest yet, by far. Dean sets Sam up with most of the blankets in front of the fire, so he has no choice but to sleep in one of the beds. He brings two candles with him that he found under the sink and hopes they'll offer at least some warmth by the bedside.

He isn't able to get comfortable. Every time his legs move his pants ride up and he loses all the warmth he gathered and his skin goes all goose-bumpy and he shivers. The stupid blanket is so thin. And all he keeps thinking about is Sammy, and how badly he must hate him. Dean's almost certain there was a time when Sammy looked up to him as most younger siblings do. Now, there was no way. He was such an idiot.

The floorboards creak and Dean's eyes shoot open. Sammy's silhouette stands in the doorframe, two heavy blankets slung over an arm.

"Sammy? What's up?" Dean asks in a groggy but warm voice. Fuck, it's so cold he almost sees his breath. Seriously.

Sam tiptoes over and piles the blankets on the bed silently.

"Sammy—"

But then he gets in, too, lifting up the covers at one end and crawling in next to Dean, cool draft seeping in until the covers settle again and Dean starts to feel Sam's body warmth.

"You cold?" Dean asks him, trying to figure out the kid's motives.

"Thought you might be." Sam shifts on his side, little toes grazing Dean's ankles.

Dean smirks a little. "Yeah, I was."

Sam shifts closer, curls up against Dean and sighs hot and steady. It's so warm Dean has to restrain himself from just grabbing Sam and smothering him all over. He's like a little furnace, all hot from the fire. Dean's already starting to warm up.

He seriously hopes he doesn't go away, but he remembers with a sickening feeling that his brother might not see him the same way anymore. "Thought you didn't want to be near me..."

Sam jumps a little. "What? God, don't be stupid."

Dean swallows, then let's his thumb stroke Sam's wrist.

"It was never about that, Dean. I... liked it."

Now Dean's just really confused. Relieved, but confused. "Then... _what_?"

"I mean I _really_ liked it..."

"Yeah?"

"You know..." Sam sighs, "it's stupid."

"What?"

"Y'know, what happened....... _Down there....._ "

Dean almost laughs. "You serious?!"

"What?" Dean can't see his face properly but that's definitely Sam's frowning voice.

" _That?_ "

" _Yes,_ that. I..."

"Sammy, that's nothing. That's the most natural—"

" _No._ No. It wasn't supposed to happen," Sam interrupts, speaking quickly and lowly, stumbling over his words. "You were just showing me something and I... I messed everything up."

Dean's heart practically drops. Sam had been thinking the whole time that... That _he_ was to blame for last night?! Dean doesn't know what to say. Stubborn kid. Always thinks everything's hisfault.

Dean turns Sam's chin up with his fingers so that he's looking in his eyes. "Sam, you... You honestly think you _messed everything up_?"

Sam nods, darts his eyes away.

Dean shakes his head. "Now who's being stupid."

But when Sam goes to say something in retort or retaliation, Dean silences him by pressing their lips together. He feels Sam startle a little but then melt right into it, his lips loosening, going all soft and tender. Dean massages them with his own, moving closer in to Sam's space. He hovers over him, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and gnawing gently. He hears Sam grunt, all sweet and high-pitched like a kitten and Dean can't hold himself back from completely losing it. He's rock hard within seconds and it's all thanks to his stupidly adorable baby brother.

Dean noses behind Sam's ear, kisses the shell of it and then kisses his neck and Sam gasps a little and then giggles. Dean smells on him that delicious sugary scent that makes him crazy — _what is it anyway?_ Like cotton candy or gummy bears or sugared apples or... It must be a soap or scented shampoo in the Harris' shower— _oh what the fuck does it matter?_ It's the best thing Dean's ever smelled and when he kisses Sam's skin he can almost _taste_ it. Or, that's just Sam. He probably tastes this sweet _naturally_.

Dean kisses a line up his jaw to his chin and Sam's huge eyes are full of excitement and wonder. Dean kisses his mouth again, runs his tongue along his satin-soft lower lip. Dean strokes Sam's thigh through his pants and pulls him in, closer so their bodies squish together, their heat commingling. Sam wraps both arms around Dean's neck, thin body rising and pressing against Dean's. When Dean grinds their hips together, he feels Sam freeze.

" _Dean._ Dean it's..."

"What is it?" Dean murmurs.

"It's happening again..."

Dean smiles against his lips. "Good. It's supposed to." He pushes up on his elbow, then swivels a finger in Sam's exposed little belly button. "Means you're a healthy boy."

Sam jerks and snickers, giggling contemptuously at his own sensitivity and Dean's playing fingers.

Their lips meet again and again.

"But you..." Sam asks, and Dean pulls back. "You don't think it's... I don't know, weird?"

Dean snorts. "No."

"Creepy?"

"No, Sam."

"...gross?"

"I don't know if you can feel _that,_ " Dean pushes right up against Sam's hip with his groin so he can feel that he's just as hard as Sam is. Probably even more so. "But I'm pretty sure that should answer your question."

Sam's cheeks beam bright red.

"Hm?" Dean kisses his cheek. "'Sides, for the record, I think it's fucking hot." Dean's Palm slides down Sam's chest flat and heavy, caresses the bare skin of his stomach under his t-shirt and feels it flutter with his touch.

"You do?" Sam asks, fingering over Dean's knuckles through the material.

"Yeah," Dean nods.

Sam smiles all bashful and bites his lip like he's proud of himself or something.

Dean keeps stroking in constant, warm circles, watching Sam as his palm pets lower and lower. Sam gasps when he reaches between his legs, caressing over the outline of his upturned dick through two layers.

"Just tell me if you want me to stop, kay?" Dean mumbles close to his tummy, blankets draped over his shoulders like a tent.

"No, don't. Please," Sam stutters, then smiles weakly and pushes his hips up.

Dean strokes down and around, cupping his palm around Sam's length. Sam stretches to kiss Dean again, his thighs twitching in anticipation. Dean presses in with his thumb and listens to Sam hum in his mouth. Sticky strands of brown hair are smeared to Sam's forehead, Dean swipes them away with his other hand even as Sam shuts his eyes and bites his lip. Dean peels back Sam's pants and boxers and Sam's length fits full in his palm. He squeezes and slowly jerks it in a steady rhythm, feeling it get hotter and harder with every stroke. Sam's got a pretty cock; it's full and flushed at the tip the color of his mouth and Dean guesses it would taste just as sweet as the rest of him.

Sam lets out small moans and whines, clutching on to Dean's shoulder, his breathing gone rigid. Dean kisses his ear again and whispers encouraging things in it, coaxing his erection to full hardness and slicking it up with the dampness that's formed at the tip.

Sam gasps over a breath. " _Dean_."

" _S'okay, I gotcha... I gotcha..._ "

Sam strains and then he leans into Dean, digging his face into his shoulder. He barely makes any noise when he comes, little breaths muffled in Dean's shirt as he spills out between Dean's fingers and his hips twitch and shake. His come is warm and gloopy, practically clear, Dean notes, and doesn't spurt out so much as it leaks out. And there's a hell of a lot of it. Dean watches as it trickles out of his fingers and down the base of Sam's cock, pooling around in the dips of each hipbone.

Dean plants soft kisses on Sam's head as he squeezes out the last of it, listening to Sam whimper and sob.

"Damn," Dean whispers, awestruck.

"S-sorry..." Sam's small voice comes from under him. He peels his face away from the crevice of Dean's armpit, little wet splotch of saliva darkening the fabric.

"Sorry?"

"It's so messy..."

"It's fucking hot," Dean corrects, spreading his fingers. He can't believe he just got his brother off. And he can't believe that he's more turned on about it than any other sexual experience he's ever had.

Sam shoves him a little, embarrassed, and goes to palm at his crotch modestly. His fingers get all wet, too, so Dean goes in the bathroom to get towels.

"I wanna ...touch you too, Dean..." Sam mumbles as Dean crawls back in bed. Sam's long thin arm strokes over his chest under the covers and it makes Dean shiver. But not... not now.

He tells him so.

"Why not...?"

Dean leans down and plants soft kisses to Sam's clean winter-pale tummy, finding each beauty mark and lingering over them. It makes Sam giggle tiredly. And hopefully forget about his train of thought. For now.


	4. We Make Our Own Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters do Christmas their way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone suggested a hot shower so I supplied ;)

Christmas comes and Dad still hasn't returned. Sam doesn't care. In fact, he's maybe even a little glad. Dean's the only person he wants to spend it with anyway. He thinks he'd be okay if every single Christmas for the rest of his life was spent with Dean and only Dean. Just like this.

He picked up McDonald's. That's the only thing for miles that's opened on Christmas Day. He comes in the door carrying brown bags with a huge smile on his face, and Sam just beams.

It's all he ever wants.    

They eat burgers and chicken nuggets and fries and pretend it's a huge Christmas dinner feast, sitting in the living room under blankets they pinned up as a fort with a great view of the fire. It's warm in the fort, they notice every time they leave it.

They spend the whole night comfortably slouched in it, making stupid jokes and telling stories.

Dean says something mildly offensive and Sam pounces on him, knowing Dean would be waiting for it.

They can't move that much in the fort, so after a small tussle Sam just lands on top of Dean and stays there. At first their hands continue fighting, but then they go still and their fingers end up twining together. Sam slides forward until his nose meets Dean's and their breaths mingle and their chests touch. Dean looks at Sam in a way Sam's never seen him look at anything. The golden cascading light flickers over Dean's face, delicate shadows play and dance across his freckled cheeks.

Sam lets his lips touch Dean's lightly, lowering down and letting them gently press together.

They let their hands part, Sam settles down and lays on Dean with his head to his chest. He feels Dean's hands on his lower back, warm and comforting. His head rises and falls in a steady rhythm with Dean's breathing, coming and going like the tide, and Dean's hot breath is the wind on the shore.

"Dean... What're we gonna do when Dad gets back?" Sam asks in a small voice, picking at the fabric of Dean's t-shirt.

"What do you mean...?" Sam feels the words more than hears them.

He props his chest up with his elbows next to Dean. "I mean, we can't exactly keep doing... y'know..."

"Yeah, I know. We're not gonna. Not when he's around."

Sam nods silently.

"That a problem?"

Sam wrinkles his brow and shakes his head. "No..."

"Good. And we're not telling him anything about this. Whatever _this_ is." Dean sits up.

"What do you mean...?"

"Well, c'mon Sam. You don't think something like this can... can actually _last_ do you?"

Sam just stares and frowns at him.

"It's not like we're boyfriend and girlfriend. We're _brothers._ "

"I know," Sam says coldly.

"And brothers don't..." Dean rubs his eyes. "Whatever."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sam's still stone-faced.

"I don't know. In case—"

"In case I thought something might be going on?" Sam spits. "Cause something _is_ going on, Dean. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Don't—"

"Just in case, okay?!"

"Don't pretend I'm crazy! It's not fair!" Sam nearly trips on his way out of the tent. "You're such an asshole!"

"Sam, that's not—" Dean starts to crawl out after him.

"No! Leave me alone." Sam shuts himself in the bathroom on the main level. It's cold and drafty and echoes so he can loudly hear his own stupid sniffles and congested whimpers.

He didn't want to cry on Christmas. What the hell? How had this happened? Why was Dean such a goddamn _jerk_?

He spends twenty minutes in there. Then a small few wraps on the door make Sam's head perk up from where he's sitting slouched on the uncomfortable closed toilet seat. His nose is still running and his eyes are probably all red.

"Sam?"

He swallows over the gloopy saliva in his mouth but says nothing to Dean.

"Sam, I didn't mean to say those things. Not to you." There's a sigh. "I was an idiot. An asshole, even. You were right. You're always right, Sammy."

Suck up.

But the tone in Dean's voice is genuine. Maybe even hurting.

There's a dragging noise and then a shadow in front of the crack at the bottom of the door. Dean's sitting against it.

"Sammy, I'm sorry."

Silence. Sam wipes his nose with his sleeve.

"You're... you're the only person I... You're just the only person I've got." Sam can barely hear him now. He gets closer to the door. "The only person I never want to let down. Sammy, I don't know what I'd do if... I don't know what I'd do without you. I only got angry at you because... because I'm scared, I guess... Stupid. And for the first time, I... I don't know what to do."

Sam sighs, hand resting on the doorknob. He decides to open it. Dean shifts over when he does, and Sam joins him against the wall.

They just stare forward, exchanging no words.

Sam looks over at Dean. He does look pretty lost. "Look," Sam says. "I don't know if what we're doing is right or not. But what I do know is that... it makes sense to me."

Dean looks over finally.

"And... and I really don't want to fight on Christmas."

"Me neither."

Sam nods. "Good."

"Good." Dean smiles, mostly with his eyes. "Love ya, kiddo."

Sam knocks him with his shoulder. "Love you too, you big jerk."

Dean nudges him back. "Hey."

They laugh.

It's _so_ much better than crying.

"You wanna go back in the tent? It's freezing out here," Sam comments, rubbing his arms.

Dean contemplates, looking around. "I got a better idea. C'mon." He gets up and helps Sam to his feet.

 

Dean's undressing in the upstairs bathroom. While Sam watches.

At first, Sam thought it was a great idea. They take a shower to warm up. Dean first, while Sam waits and lets the humidity warm him up in the meantime.

But now, watching Dean's golden skin reveal itself, (how was it so creamy and radiant in the winter, while Sam's was all pale and lifeless?) Sam's cheeks are starting to get hot. He tries to pretend like he's not looking when Dean's pants drop. And when the boxers go, Sam only sees the crease of his ass from the corner of his eye because he definitely does _not_ want to be caught looking. _Staring_. Dean would definitely laugh at him.

Dean disappears behind the shower curtain and Sam starts to bounce his knees, impatiently waiting. He's sitting on the closed toilet seat and can't help thinking about how hard and cold it is.

Dean pokes his wet head out and stares Sam up. "The hell you waiting for?"

"Huh?" Sam squeaks.

"Get in here," Dean's looking at him like he's crazy. Like Sam should have already known the unspoken plan ten minutes ago.

"Oh," Sam stands awkwardly. "I wasn't... I didn't..." He undresses at lightning speed and then gets in the shower behind Dean at the back, heart pounding thunderously. He's shivering but even though he's not directly under the stream yet he feels the humidity and it makes the tiny hairs on his arms stand up. Dean's _right there_ , naked and dripping wet and glorious. Sam just wants to touch him but he's still not sure what Dean will find acceptable and what he'll find just plain weird. They haven't exactly talked about this much. He feels like he's having a love affair with the statue of David. His strong back is definitely sculpture-worthy, perfectly curved spine, lean in the waist but arms and legs of an athlete, 'cause Dean does train a lot more than Sam, blonde hairs at the nape of his neck wet with tiny drops of crystal-like water and it's like Sam's looking at him for the very first time.

Dean glances behind himself. "There you are." He laughs. "C'mere, you dope."

Dean drags him closer and spins them so Sam's under the stream. Instantly Sam's warm; the hot water allows his body temperature to rise and his shivers to subside. It pours over his hair and he smiles, tilting his head up into it and letting it fall over his entire body.

Dean's slippery hands are still holding on to his elbows, they're almost close enough that their bodies are touching and Sam's heart's still throbbing.

Sam turns his chin up and kisses Dean's wet lips, watches with water-blurred vision as Dean's green eyes slowly shut and then the water pours over them both, stream flowing down and muting Sam's hearing. He feels Dean's hands come around his body at the back, two warm palms at his lower back, pulling him in closer. Their pelvises brush and Sam feels the hardness of Dean's dick slowly pressing against his hip and it makes his face get all hot. He knows Dean can feel him, too and it's too much. He breaks the kiss and turns around, Dean's hands faltering hesitantly on his hips. As the steamy water rains down on him, he tries to steady his breathing. He's so turned on he's practically jumping out of his skin, but he doesn't know what to do.

Dean made it pretty clear earlier that nothing between them can continue past this little vacation. But what does that mean..? That Dean doesn't _want_ anything to happen? Yeah, sure, he apologized, but not for the _meaning_ behind what he was saying, only for saying it, period.

Sam pretends to occupy himself with wanting to actually _wash_ in the shower, during which he actually _does_ wash, sliding the bar of soap along his arms and underneath his armpits, letting the suds drip down his body to his legs and feet.

"Mmm," Dean hums. "So _that's_ what I've been smelling on you..." Dean leans over Sam's shoulder from behind, presses his smiling mouth all up in the crook of his neck and Sam jolts and giggles. Dean brings him closer by the hips and bites his neck; suddenly Sam's a mass of sensitive nerves, every inch of his body throbbing with vitality.

"Dean! _Ah!_ Stop!"

"I could eat you up..." Dean groans, trying to keep him still. "Fuck, you realize how amazing that fucking soap is..?"

Sam tries to shove him away but it's too slippery. Not that he's _really_ trying to shove him away. That's just what they do. "I never took you for the— cannibalistic type."

Another nip at his shoulder. "Feelin' like Lecter tonight. Y'know— Anthony Hopkiss—"

"It's _Hopkins._ "

" _You're_ a Hopkins," Dean chuckles, amused with himself. Sam keeps feeling Dean's hot erection nudging into his back, and however unintentional the _very blatant_ act is, Sam's heart's racing so fast it feels like it might just fly up out of his throat. He gasps when Dean sucks a bruise into his neck and leans back into it, the water hits his throat and _fuck_ it feels... it feels...

"Dean, mm—"

"Feel good?" Dean kisses up his ear and pulls their bodies together. Sam shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back on the warm shoulder behind him. He's so hard he can feel his dick bobbing between his legs, craving attention.

"Mhm..."

He gets hotter. Dean slithers his hands in front of Sam's body and wraps his fist tightly around the base of his dick, fingers brushing his balls and Sam bites his lip and holds in a whimper.

"Yeah..." his voice shakes as he rocks back into Dean, body slowly weakening under Dean's control.

Dean strokes him with a firm hand, slow squeezing rhythm that Sam starts to fall apart to. He can't catch his breath. Dean's hands on him, his slick-hot lips at his neck, his chest pressed tightly up against his back, the water showering them and the humidity encompassing them like a cocoon... it's all... too much.

Sam crumples in Dean's arms and comes and comes; he feels every tremor, every pulse so that it seems to last forever; every last drop pressed through Dean's thumb, every shudder caught by his supporting grip and by the end Sam feels close to passing out, every muscle in his body shaking and loose like rubber.

Dean's breathing in his ear, so close Sam feels how jagged it is, how erratic and quick it's coming. He pushes Sam closer to the wall and Sam kind of falls against it, hands sliding down the tile and Dean crowds him, hovers over him and plants a hand firmly beside Sam's on the cold ceramic.

Dean moans and catches a gasp in his throat, and just like that Sam feels Dean's come spattering his lower back and it takes him by surprise. He wants to turn around, but he can barely move. His forehead drags against the wet tile as he makes the decision to try to compose himself, lifting up until he feels Dean's cheek against his ear.

Dean plants slow kisses to Sam's shoulder and Sam dreams of telling Dean he never wants this — whatever the hell they have going — to end.

But, sooner or later, they'll have to get out of the shower. They'll have to shut the water off and start to shiver again and await Dad's return. Anyway, Sam's not going to be the one to turn the faucet.


End file.
